


Molly's Bad Day

by lalunaunita



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Gen, John's a good guy, Molly Hooper centric, Molly Hooper is all of us, Sherlock's oblivious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-25 12:53:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14977565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalunaunita/pseuds/lalunaunita
Summary: Molly Hooper is having a terrible day, but Sherlock manages to brighten it up!





	Molly's Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place between Seasons 1 & 2 of BBC Sherlock. Molly's got a major crush, but doesn't know what to do about it. Sherlock is his usual oblivious and uncaring self.
> 
> Major thanks to Grey and 'Rin, who brought the best out of this old draft with their thorough and considerate critique!!
> 
> On a personal note, this is the first fan fiction I ever wrote - back in 2012. I found the draft, discovered I'd actually finished it in 2015, and thought it might be time to finally publish. It still needed work, and I'm so grateful to my betas for going through it.

Some days she felt exactly how Sherlock must see her: a mindless, trained automaton, educated specifically to suit her field and nothing more. The only connections she could draw were the ones the university classes has beaten into her brain over and over. There was no call for creativity—do the work, get the results, report the findings. Start over.

Molly crossed the lab to the microscope and took one more look at the sample illuminated under its lens, double-checking just the way procedure indicated. Yep. Cancer. Death by natural causes. She checked all the necessary boxes on the page attached to her clipboard, signed her name at the bottom, and closed the file. Five cases down, ninety-five more to go. Paperwork Automaton to the rescue. Molly scowled at the file cabinet as she shoved the manila folder in place and slammed the drawer. Oh, she was in a sour mood today.

Shortly before noon, Molly heard the doors to the lab swing open and she looked behind her in surprise. Sherlock’s sudden presence seemed to suck up all the space in the tiny lab, making it feel even smaller. John Watson practically had to elbow his way in as he followed a step behind, a smile of greeting on his face. Molly noticed Sherlock didn’t have a smile for her. She spun around on her stool to face them, away from the microscope and her 100 tissue samples.

“Gentlemen,” she greeted them, hoping her tight smile would hide the blush creeping up her cheeks. “How are you today?”

“Good to see you, Molly,” Watson began. She had a feeling she knew where this was going. “Been ah, working hard?”

“Ye-es,” she replied testily and folded her arms over her chest, straightening her spine and leaning back against the formica counter. She gave John her best steely-eyed glare; she knew she wouldn’t be able to keep it up if she looked at his companion.

“That’s good, that’s good. We’ve got a bit of a case… do you think you’d have some time to—”

“Here, I brought you a sandwich.” Sherlock tossed a cellophane-wrapped package across the table. 

Molly could see it had been slightly squished during its time as an inmate in Sherlock’s greatcoat pocket. Her eyebrows shot up as she looked from the parcel to the man. Heat gathered in her cheeks. 

“Sherlock, I—no. No, Sherlock. Not today!”

“But—”

“No! Look, you can’t just show up out of the blue, bring me a sandwich that I don’t even like, and expect me to work through my lunch just so you can get your name in the paper.” This was good. Molly felt like she was gathering some steam. Not so mindless after all.

“I’m not interested in the papers, you idio—”

“Well, I’m not interested in helping you. Mr. Observant, please observe this,” Molly flipped up two fingers in a recognizable gesture and quickly stepped out of the lab, the double doors swinging behind her. She could see John, unsure whether to gape or grin, out of the corner of her eye as she passed.

“It’s ham on rye; I thought she loved ham on rye,” Sherlock muttered, watching her retreat.

\-------------

Three minutes later, the woosh of the double doors heralded Molly’s return. 

“I’ve had some time to think,” she said, arms laden with food from the cafeteria, “If it’s to solve a crime, I’d like to help.”

“Much obliged,” Watson said, helpfully relieving her of her burden. Sherlock reached forward for one of the wrapped sandwiches, but Molly slapped his hand.

“No, that one’s for John. You can eat the squished one.” She pointed at the meager offering Sherlock had earlier placed on the table. Molly settled back on her stool with a cup of yogurt and a spoon. “Okay, so what needs doing?”

“Can we see the body of Mr. Travis Bristow? He was brought in last night.” Apparently not offended by his lunch prospects, Sherlock unwrapped the sandwich she’d indicated and ate it in four quick bites, hardly acknowledging its existence. 

Molly shrugged one shoulder and licked her spoon.

“Sure. Everyone’s on lunch already but me, and Sarah called in sick today. Hence my embarrassing wealth of solo sample work this morning,” she indicated the counter behind her and received a sympathetic look from John. Well, that was something, at least. 

Sherlock stood, dusting off his hands and crumpling the sandwich wrapper. She eyed him beadily as he swept crumbs off of her workspace and into the trash. Nodding slightly, she gathered her own discards. Sherlock had quickly picked up on the fact that although she might eat in here from time to time, the surest way to completely piss her off was to make a mess of her lab.

Molly let them into the morgue, found the file for Mr. Bristow, opened the cooler, and let the boys take their peek. No one asked her opinion on anything, and she didn’t give it. She idly unwrapped a stick of gum and popped it into her mouth, chewing to get rid of the post-lunch flavor on her tongue. Sherlock reviewed the file in the lightning-fast way he had, slapped it shut, and handed it back to her.

“We’ll need to head back to Mr. Bristow’s cigar shop,” he said to Watson. John nodded and turned to go, polite enough to wait for Molly to push the dead man’s tray back and lock the cooler door. 

The two of them made tracks without saying goodbye, hinged doors swinging in their wake. With a sigh and a last look to ensure she had no observers, Molly spit her gum directly into the trash. She walked the short hallway back to her lab. _Paperwork Automaton, back in action._

\-------------

After work, Molly headed for the gym she frequented a few blocks away from St. Bart’s. In the locker room, she pulled on her brand-new hot pink trainers, lacing them up with pleasure. Neon colors weren’t usually her thing, but something told her the bright, bold shoes would boost her motivation. She brushed her hair, then pulled it into a utilitarian ponytail, glancing in the locker room mirror. Training for a marathon was definitely helping her figure, she noted with a smile. She walked past the long row of toilet stalls to the back exit of the locker room, which opened onto the outdoor track. A slight twinge in her back made her grimace, but the fresh breeze wafting in as she pulled the door open drove it from her mind. Gorgeous day. She could almost forget about her earlier mood, although thinking of Sherlock still brought a flush to her cheeks. She got started on her long run.

About forty minutes later, Molly had to stop. Breathing heavily, she planted one hand firmly on her lower back, trying to stretch out the muscle spasm. She had to abandon the long run. Her back just wasn’t going to let her do it today. Irritated, she aimed a small kick at the fence post as she tread slowly past, then wished she hadn’t. Hopefully a good, long soak would work it out. She returned to the locker room, brows drawn together in pain.

\-------------

Back at home Molly waited for her tub to fill, mouth in a small frown. The bell rang just as Molly leaned over to turn off the hot water. She sighed, wanting to ignore it. Her back ached and the steamy tub smelled invitingly of the lavender and vanilla oils she’d poured into the water. Pulling her pink terrycloth robe closer, Molly padded to the front door of her apartment and leaned up on tiptoe to spy through the peephole. She jerked back suddenly, then leaned forward for another view. Slouching in the dim hallway, wearing his trademark great coat, was Sherlock Holmes. She quickly undid the deadbolts and grabbed the doorknob, pulling it so fiercely that a small whoosh of air breezed past, stirring her flyaways. Belatedly, she tried to smooth her unruly hair, bundled into an untidy knot on the crown of her head. _Stupid, Molly! So stupid!_ Why hadn’t she at least pulled the elastic out before opening the door?

“Sherlock!” she pasted on a smile meant to indicate she didn’t care how she looked and was simply delighted to greet a friend. “I wasn’t expecting you. Come—come in, why don’t you?”

She yanked her hand down from her hair and squeezed the fuzzy pink robe even more closely to her neck. Its deep pink hue suddenly felt garish next to his somber charcoal coat. Sherlock brushed past her and stopped awkwardly in the tiny entryway as she shut the door and twisted all the deadbolts once again. She turned to face him.

“Er… ah, would you like some tea?” she asked at the same time he said, “May I use your loo?”

The awkwardness increased in the short lull. 

“Yes, of course,” she replied, indicating the direction with a limp hand and he strode purposefully into her small apartment, turning at the kitchen and walking down the short hallway. She followed slowly and put the kettle on, readying the tea implements. A minute later, she heard a flush and Sherlock joined her in the kitchen.

“You had a bath going. Don’t let me interrupt,” he said in his characteristically smooth, low tone. Molly cleared her throat before responding.

“No, it’s fine; I’ll draw another one. Tea’s about ready.” The kettle whistled at that moment and she warmed the pot, then dropped a handful of loose tea leaves in, dousing them in boiling water. She readied a tray and took it into the living room. Uncertain, she went ahead and sat down on the couch.

Thankfully, Sherlock followed her and sat in her reading chair. It looked tiny with his tall frame scrunched down in it. She felt like her whole place looked small. Molly didn’t know what to say. Sherlock had never been to her apartment before. She hadn’t even thought he knew where she lived, although it didn’t surprise her. She cleared her throat again and poured the tea.

“How did you know I’d be home?” she asked, curious. “I might have been running errands.” It occurred to her that maybe she should have asked why he was here first.

“It’s Tuesday, not to mention your trainers were sticking out of the top of your bag, and you told John the other week that you’re training for the marathon in October. You leave early on Tuesdays for your long run, but you only did the short run this afternoon—five kilometers. You did the short run because your back’s bothering you—didn’t want to over do it—I could tell by your posture when you walked out of the lab earlier today. It’s that lower back thing you get from hunching over the microscope, isn’t it? Anyway, I knew you were back from training and you’ve already done your grocery shopping for the week, so you’re home early and have no plans to leave.” He paused for a breath. “Hence the bath.”

He paused again. “Is it alright if I hide here for a while?”

“Of course. From what?” she’d been listening intently as she added cream and sugar to her tea, and now she settled back onto the couch cushions, cup in hand, knees drawn demurely up. Sherlock downed half a cup as she watched, giving it the same lack of consideration he’d given his sandwich at lunch.

“Just some people. They wouldn’t think to look for me here. Nothing to worry about.”

“Oh.” The silence stretched out as Sherlock impatiently tapped his fingers on the arm of her reading chair. “So… solved any good cases lately?” _Oh, Molly,_ she thought to herself. She’d always been terrible at small talk. Her clock chimed the five o’clock hour.

“Yeh, quite a few, actually,” Sherlock’s perusal of her apartment space stopped and he refocused his intent gaze on her. “Want to hear about Mrs. Stratton’s murder?”

“Is there death and dismemberment?” she asked, a twinkle in her eye.

“Only the best for you, Molly.”

\-------------

Five hours later, Molly sat contentedly in her reading chair, feet propped up, with a good book in hand. She’d said goodbye to Sherlock hours earlier, but he still flitted through her mind every few minutes as she paused to sip the mug of tea on the table beside her. They’d found something or other to talk about for the better part of an hour before he popped up out of her chair and went on his way again. She could still kind of smell him on the chair. She’d drawn another bath and her back felt relieved and relaxed at last. Some ibuprofen added into the mix didn’t hurt, either. As she set down the mug, her doorbell rang again.

“Who…?” she asked the empty room, at a loss. It was nearly ten o’clock at night. Maybe Mrs. Wang down the hall needed something. She put down her book and went to the door, unlocking the deadbolts and peeking out, keeping the chain on. She couldn’t believe her eyes. It was Sherlock. Again.

“Sherlock? What’s wrong?” she asked, surprise making her voice high and tight in her own ears.

“Nothing’s wrong. I have something for you.” He drew one hand out of his pocket and something metallic flashed on a delicate chain in the hall lights.

Molly gasped and tears filled her eyes. She shut the door to pull the chain, then opened it wide. Sherlock dropped a small, golden antique locket into her palm and she pressed it to her chest with a deep breath, eyes closed. Delighted, she threw her thin arms around his neck, standing on tiptoe to reach him. He awkwardly patted her back, bent down with her weight. Molly got an odd whiff of tobacco, but then she remembered Mr. Bristow’s cigar shop. She let go quickly and backed away from him, then bounced over to a bar stool beside her kitchen counter. Sherlock declined to sit and stood in her doorway, looking about uncomfortably.

“Wherever did you find it?” Molly laughed, her eyes sparkling. She held her tiny locket up to the light and tilted her head to look at it.

“I was looking for a way to sell stolen items earlier and came across your Gumtree posting. I recognized your mobile number, even though you didn’t include your name, just initials. Since you’d obviously lost it yesterday, but only noticed this morning, accounting for your bad temper earlier at lunch, I traced it back to the vending machine where you bought chewing gum while waiting for the tube. The clasp had broken—it fell away and you kicked it under the vending machine when you leaned over to retrieve your pack of gum.” He shrugged.

“You know, I don’t even want to know how you figured out which machine I bought gum from. Or that I bought gum. Okay, yes, I do.” Molly couldn’t suppress the instinctual curiosity. People never could around Sherlock.

“Mint-Tea brand gum. You were chewing it earlier; I recognized the scent. Only fifteen vending machines in the city stock it, and only one is on your way home.”

“That is… an unbelievable bit of minutiae, but thank you nonetheless. The locket was my grandmother’s; I thought I’d never see it again. It really means a lot to me, Sherlock.” Molly was surprised that he ducked his head a little. Was she embarrassing him? No, Sherlock didn’t know how to be embarrassed. 

He shuffled a step back then, and she could see that he was going to go. She sighed to herself, but it was late. She needed to be getting to bed soon herself.

“Well goodnight then, Sherlock,” Molly said as he stood in the hall. She pulled the door, unable to keep a grin from gliding across her features. 

His mouth moved in a tight smile as he tilted his head and made a half salute, then exited the hall without another word. With a last look at his retreat she closed the door, turning the deadbolts and leaning against it. She held the tiny locket up again and watched the light glint off its etching. She crossed her small sitting room to the mantel, opened a velvet jewelry box that rested there, and placed the golden heart within.


End file.
